Fitting, what with the somber mood today.
As I approach my car, I see someone standing beside it. Two someones.
The police detectives—Spalding and Hughes.
I stop short, staring at both of them before plastering on a polite smile. Detective Hughes is leaning against my BMW like he freaking owns it, the jerk. But what am I supposed to do, tell him to step away from my car?
He’s a cop. And I’m a…possible suspect?
I do my best to keep my smile pasted on, but it’s shaky at best. “Hello,” I greet them.
“Miss Malone.” Detective Spalding nods and takes a step forward, his smile kind, though his expression is bland. The complete opposite of Hughes right now—he’s glaring at me like he wants to throw me to the ground and cuff me. “Glad we caught you before you left campus.”
“What’s going on?” I stop near the back end of my car, keeping my distance just in case Detective Hughes decides he really does want to cuff me.
I’d give anything to have Mrs. Adney or Mr. Rose here with me. I’m not comfortable talking to the cops alone.
“We were speaking with Barbara Nelson earlier—Gretchen’s mother. She mentioned a tiny detail we found rather interesting, and we were wondering if you knew anything about it.”
“Isn’t this illegal? Your questioning me?” I frown, unease slithering down my spine. Why are they questioning me here in the parking lot? When they both remain quiet, I decide I might as well ask another question. “What did she say?”
“She told us Gretchen texted her while she was at volleyball practice, letting her know she was going to a surprise Larks meeting,” Detective Hughes explains, stepping forward so he’s standing next to Spalding. “Did you call a surprise meeting yesterday afternoon?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Who’s the person who normally organizes Larks meetings?”
“Me,” I admit shakily.
“But you didn’t organize this one?”
“No,” I repeat. “I didn’t. I don’t know who would do that.”
“Neither do we,” Spalding says easily, slipping his hands into the front pockets of his pants.
“Maybe Gretchen was lying to her mother,” I suggest. I wouldn’t put it past her. She’d done it before. So have I. Haven’t we all?
“Did she do that often?”
“I don’t know. Probably?”
“Do you lie to your parents very often, Miss Malone?”
“No.” Funny how one word can sound guilty.
Spalding decides to change tactics. “Did you and Gretchen spend a lot of time together?”
“We weren’t that close.” Not anymore.
Hughes looks surprised. “Really? I thought all the Larks were close.”
“We work together. Some of us are friends. Some of us aren’t.” I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, like he suspects me of…what? Gretchen’s murder?
As if. Maybe they should take a look at that creepy Cass Vincenti. Though really, maybe that’s unfair. What does Cass have to do with this? What do any of us have to do with Gretchen’s murder? Beyond providing information on her whereabouts, no one at school is responsible.
At least, I don’t think anyone at school is responsible.
“We might need to call you down to the station to question you further, Miss Malone. Do you have a problem with that?” Detective Spalding asks, his voice kind yet his expression serious.
“You’ll have to talk to my dad,” I tell them, lifting my chin, hoping I look stronger than I feel. “He’s a lawyer.”
“Ah.” Spalding nods like that explains everything. “Well, we’ll be in contact with him soon, then.”
Dread washes over me, but I pretend I’m fine, hitting the button on my keyless remote so my car doors unlock. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a candlelight vigil to get ready for.” Oh, I sound megaconfident. Where did that come from?
“Talk to you soon, Penelope,” Hughes says as I climb into the car. I shut the door before he can say anything else.
I wait until they walk away before I reach out to start the car. But it’s hard.
My hands won’t stop shaking.
Chapter
Six
This candlelight vigil is complete bullshit.
Pretty sure everyone from school is here. Like, every single person—the popular people, the band geeks, the burnouts, the brainiacs, the losers. And they’re all clustered together in smaller groups, hugging one another and sobbing into one another’s shoulders and chests—though the chest sobbing is more like guys trying to press their faces into girls’ boobs.
But yeah, they are all literally sobbing like they can’t contain themselves. Like they’re so overcome by the queen bitch’s murder.
It is the most vulgar display of fake emotion I’ve ever seen in my life.
Volleyball coach Sally Smith is standing next to a giant poster of Gretchen Nelson that’s propped on a stand. There are two obscene floral arrangements of blood red roses flanking either side of the photo of the grinning, forever-gone Gretchen.
Coach Smith is still in her volleyball gear. She’s wearing a Cape Bonita Prep T-shirt and dark blue Nike shorts that show off her thick legs. There’s even a whistle around her neck, for Christ’s sake. She’s droning on and on about what a great player Gretchen was—ha, that could be taken in so many ways. What a great person Gretchen was, which we all know deep down is a complete and utter lie.
She was not a great person. She was a snob and a bitch who loved putting people down. Who loved stealing guys right out from under her friends’ noses. I’ve seen her do it once or twice.
“We will all miss Gretchen so, so much,” Coach says just before she breaks down in tears. She hangs her head, bends forward a little, and her whistle swings to and fro. It’s downright mesmerizing.
With a big sniff and a little cough, Coach Smith turns to stare at the photo like she wants to make out with it, and speaks, as if she’s actually talking to Gretchen. “I hope heaven knows how lucky they are to have a pretty angel like you.”
People start waving the corny signs they made in honor of Gretchen. I’m surprised the band isn’t set up, ready to play at a moment’s notice. If you squint and forget the recent tragedy, you would almost imagine this is your typical high school pep rally.
My gaze goes to the giant Gretchen poster. She’s leaning against a tree and her arms are crossed in front of her. The smile on her face is smug, her red hair is bright and shiny, and her eyes…let’s just say, she looks mighty pleased with herself.
The complete opposite of what she looked like last night, begging for her life in the church parking lot.
Bitch got exactly what she deserved.
Chapter
Seven
I don’t even know what to make of this vigil we’re having for Gretchen. It feels so over the top, and the volleyball coach is not making it any easier. She’s literally sobbing into the microphone and I’m half tempted to cover my ears and scream, “Make it stop!”
But I don’t. Of course I don’t. That would be the worst thing I could ever do. Larks don’t make a scene. No one in Cape Bonita makes a scene. Not really. We’re so polite it’s almost comical.
Besides, I really am torn up over Gretchen’s death. Yes, we had our ups and downs. Yes, we were in a down when she died, but that doesn’t mean I won’t miss her. No one really deserves to die, and while I haven’t heard any confirmed details yet—and trust that the rumors are flying around school, let me tell you—I do know she was for sure murdered in the parking lot of the Our Lady of Mount Carmel Catholic Church.
It makes no sense. Gretchen’s family went to that progressive Christian church on the other side of town, and they attended infrequently. The typical holiday appearances and whatnot. So what brought her to Our Lady of Mount Carmel?
Supposedly it was me, since I called the surprise Larks meeting—at least, according to the detectives.
I spy the detectives now, standing off to the side but not too far from where Coach Smith is still sobbing into the mic. They’re just behind the giant portrait of Gretchen, their faces unreadable, their eyes shifting and moving as they scan the crowd, their hands resting on their hips. Looking for suspects, no doubt.
I’m pretty sure the entire school is here, and they are all collectively in mourning for Gretchen. I’ve never seen so many people cry in one spot in all my life. I’ve swiped at my eyes more than a few times myself, though I’m not big on crying in public. My father instilled that in us since we were little kids. Tears make us weak.
And we need to stay strong.
“This is so incredibly sad,” Dani says to me. I can tell just by the sound of her voice that she’s been crying, too.
Wrapping my arm around her slender shoulders, I pull her in close and give her a one-sided hug. “I know. It’s hard to believe she’s gone.”
“Is it wrong to admit I’m kind of glad she is?” Courtney asks snidely.
My mouth falls open. So does Dani’s.
“Too soon? Yeah, I thought so,” Court says with a slight nod.
I don’t quite understand the animosity between Courtney and Gretchen, but it was bad. And it looks bad, too, what with how Courtney can’t stop talking about it. So why aren’t the detectives questioning her more thoroughly? She’s the one who’s acting suspicious, not me. They make it seem like I’m the one who lured Gretchen to her death. While Courtney’s going around telling anyone who’ll listen she’s glad Gretchen is dead.
Or maybe I’m just paranoid. When I told my parents everything that happened at school today, Daddy told me he’s calling in a few favors from work associates, so I know I’m covered. But still. It’s scary, having the cops snooping around and looking into our lives.
But maybe someone else is looking into our lives, too. Someone we don’t know.
“What exactly was your problem with her anyway?” I ask, curious. When Courtney whirls on me, her eyes narrowed, I plead my case. “Come on, Court, we’re all friends here. I had no idea you two were fighting so badly.”
“We weren’t fighting. It was more like an unspoken disagreement,” Courtney explains.
I frown. “About what?”
“A boy,” Dani adds, sending me a duh look. “Remember what she said earlier this afternoon at the library? Supposedly Gretchen stole her man.”
“She did steal my man,” Court adds.
“Who did she steal from you?” I turn to look at Courtney.
She sighs, resting a hand on her hip. “The last one isn’t even worth mentioning,” Courtney says, her voice low as Mr. Rose starts to speak. All three of us are standing close together, our own little island among the many mourners who are sniffling and crying openly. “It’s the fact that she stole yet another guy from me that pisses me off. I confronted her about it, too, but she just laughed.” Courtney scowls. “I’m so over it. I’m over her.”
Huh. If Court says he’s not worth mentioning, then he is most definitely worth mentioning. She’s just trying to keep him her little secret.
“Then why are you here if you’re still so mad at her?” Dani asks innocently, her brown eyes wide.
“Where else am I supposed to go? If I didn’t show up tonight, I’d look like a bitch,” Courtney says. “So instead I’m here pretending I’m sad she’s gone.”
“You really shouldn’t talk about Gretchen like that, Court,” Dani says timidly. “What if someone else heard you?”
“Please, she had so many enemies. I could hand over a long-ass list of people the police should talk to, trust me. Besides, I already spoke to the detectives. I was upfront with them. They know we didn’t get along very well, and they acted like it was no big deal.” Courtney shrugs, scanning the crowd until her gaze alights on someone. “I’ll be right back, girls.”
She walks away before we can say anything, getting swallowed up in the crowd.
“Who is she going to talk to?” I stand on my tiptoes, trying to find her, but it’s near impossible in the sea of black-wearing, crying students.
“Who cares?” Dani tugs on my arm, forcing me to look at her. “I don’t like how she’s talking, Penelope. She seems suspicious.”
“They’ve always sort of hated each other.” I know where Dani is going with this, but Courtney would never actually hurt someone. Come on, we’re Larks. We’re not murderers.
“Yeah, but we’ve all sort of hated each other at one point or another. It’s like Court doesn’t give a crap who hears her say she despised Gretchen.” Dani lowers her voice. “She’s giving herself motive.”
More like major motive, not that I want to think Courtney would ever do something like that. “Come on, D. You don’t think she murdered Gretchen, do you?”
“No. But I don’t like being seen with someone who everyone else is going to think murdered Gretchen,” Dani explains.
Huh. She has a valid point.
I scan the crowd, looking for Court’s familiar blond head, but I don’t spot her. It feels like everyone’s looking at one another, suspicion in their gazes, their arms wrapped around themselves like they’re trying to ward off bad spirits. The mood is somber, unlike anything I’ve ever seen at school before, but I guess that’s expected considering the circumstances.
My chest feels tight and I rest my hand over my heart. It still hits me every few minutes that Gretchen is never coming back.
Ever.
“Thank you, everyone, for taking the time to gather together tonight, and to help remember the bright shining light that was once Gretchen Nelson.”
We all go silent when Mr. Rose starts to speak. His voice is strong and firm, totally unlike how he spoke to us earlier this morning in the gym, when he’d still been rattled and shocked.
“It is always devastating when a young life is snuffed out too soon. But the way we lost Gretchen is particularly painful for all of us.” Mr. Rose pauses, like he’s letting that bit of information sink in. “I hope that if there’s anyone out there who has even a tiny bit of information, or who might’ve seen something yesterday—or perhaps you heard something—I hope you will do the right thing and talk to the detectives in charge of the case.” He waves a hand at Detectives Spalding and Hughes, who both give this weird sort of wave at the crowd, like they’re embarrassed that Mr. Rose pointed them out.
Maybe they didn’t want to be acknowledged at all?
“Cape Bonita Prep is proud of its students. We are strong, we are smart, and we are capable. And right now, we need to band together and take care of one another in our time of need,” Mr. Rose says, his voice rising. “Some of us will remain strong. Others will do their best to not fall apart, and that’s okay. You’re allowed to feel pain. We all deal with loss differently, and this will be a difficult time for all of us to endure, especially those who were so close to Gretchen.” He pauses, letting his words sink in yet again. “Please don’t forget we will have grief counselors on campus for the remainder of the week. And if necessary, they will be here next week as well.”
Mr. Rose goes silent and scans the crowd, his gaze alighting on…me.
“Penelope. I know you and Gretchen were close. Would you like to say something?” He tips the microphone in my direction.
Oh. My. God. He totally called me out. I know I should stand strong before the student body and say something thoughtful about Gretchen, but…I’m scared. Nervous, too. And I usually never get nervous when speaking in front of a crowd.
A shuddery exhale leaves me, and I part my lips, ready to answer, when Courtney appears out of nowhere, standing next to Mr. Rose and swiping the mic right out of his hand.
I can’t help but admire her outfit as she takes the stage. A plain black dress that’s not plain at all if you look for the right details. Like the delicate lace collar that circles her neck, and the intricate pleats in the bodice’s wispy, thin black material. The dress fits her to perfection and is extremely expensive.
Ve
ry funeral chic. If that’s even a thing.
“I have something to say about our dear, sweet Gretchen,” Court starts, a giant smile curving her lips as she studies the students. She has no fear of crowds. Not only is she a cheerleader, Courtney has also performed in lead roles for the drama department since we started high school. This is definitely her element.
She turns to look at Mr. Rose. “Do you mind, Bob?”
We all call Mr. Rose Bob behind his back, since that’s his first name. But we never say it to his face.
“Go right ahead, Courtney,” he says with a weak smile. He looks nervous.
Knowing Courtney and what she just revealed to us, he should be.
She faces the crowd once more, beaming. Her blond hair shines, her blue eyes sparkle, and she is elegance personified in that gorgeous black dress. But it’s all a facade, hiding her ugly, angry heart.
Courtney can turn on the sweetness like no one else, but she also knows how to infuse every word she says with venom, too. Over the years, I’ve learned it’s better to keep her on your good side versus your bad. And lately she’s acted even more out of character. Angrier. More outbursts, more irrational behavior.
“I’ve known Gretchen since kindergarten. Isn’t that sweet?” Everyone makes an aww noise, and her eyes dim. Is it just me or is she starting to look weird? Like she’s suddenly exhausted. Maybe she is. I know I am. “We were the very best of friends. We did everything together, up until about fifth grade, when we drifted apart. It happens, you know? We make new friends. We find new interests. It hurts, but it’s normal.”
What’s not normal is Courtney’s behavior. Her words seem to slur together and her eyelids are droopy, like she might fall asleep at any moment.
Dani leans over and whispers, “Do you think she’s drunk?”
Shaking my head, I shrug. I have no clue.
“But then in high school, we came back together,” Courtney continues. “We bonded. We became best friends again. We were in cheer together. We were both appointed to student council positions. Our junior year, we became Larks, and we made a promise to each other at the beginning of that school year. We were going to change the world and make it a better place. We were going to do things that mattered. The Larks are leaders of the school, bright and shiny representatives of the future.”
Pretty Dead Girls Page 4